Un-Tying the Knot {h.s.}

Chapter 70

Harry's stomach heaves violently, clenching and cramping as his fingers curl against the porcelain of the toilet bowl, nails scratching just trying to find something to hold on to. He takes a large gasping breath when it finally lets up, his body trembling, legs quivering under him, and he wants to fall to his knees, but can't risk getting his Gucci trousers dirty.

A quick rap of knuckles on the door. "You okay, dude?" Nick asks, his voice muffled behind the heavy wood of the bathroom door.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, his voice a dry rasp, but he's not fine -- his stomach rolling again violently as he retches once more into the bowl.

This is easily the worse case of nerves he's ever had, the buzz before going on stage nothing compared to this bout of cold feet. He's getting married in an hour. His groan is cut off by the sharp seizure of his abdominal muscles as they try and force up the last of his lunch along with the lining of his stomach.

"You sound like you're hurlin' up your balls in there," Nick says, his words joking, but his tone is tentative, the door handle jiggling.

"I said I'm fine," Harry snaps, letting out a shaky sigh as he finally sits back, his trousers be damned, leaning his head back against the cool wood of the door, resting his trembling elbows on his shaking knees.

He closes his eyes, hearing the muffled chatter of the groomsmen in the outer dressing room before there's a hush, and now it's only the dull hum of Nick's voice followed by the sound of shuffling feet, and then silence.

He sighs heavily, pulling his head forward and then letting it thump back hard against the wood, jarring his senses, and his stomach finally feels settled enough for him to try and stand. His legs wobble unsteadily underneath him as he braces his hands on the cool porcelain of the sink for balance, looking up at himself in the mirror.

He's pale, forehead clammy with sweat, and his green eyes are slightly bloodshot and alight with some emotion he doesn't try to decipher. He flicks on the faucet and cups a shaking hand beneath the stream of water, bringing it to his mouth and swishing it around before spitting it back out and then splashing more on his face.

He takes a step back from the mirror, standing tall and running a hand over his closely cut hair as he breathes. "Come on Harry, get it together."

~♥️~

I pace the hallway, my heels making a smart tapping sounds against the stone floor. I'm a bundle of nervous energy, my stomach twisting itself in knots. All week, Nick's plea has rung in my ears, and I hate to admit that I've courted the idea of trying to stop this thing, even had my thumb poised over the send button a few times, my heart thundering in my chest as I did so -- but I always stopped myself.

Despite Nick's furious belief that I could fix this situation, I had no clue what to say. I'd said it all before, and Harry had ignored it every time, subconsciously or not -- and in the end, all I wound up with was the same feeling of helplessness I always had when it came to Harry.

But now, standing here in the biggest church I'd ever been in, on what was probably the biggest day of Harry's life, I wish I would have spoken up sooner -- all of the words that I've held in for so long wanting so badly to rush out of me.

So I pace, weighing the pros and cons of such an act. A desperate plea to my lover on his wedding day? Dare I allow myself to commit such a cliché?

"Olivia!"

I jump as I hear my name echo off the stone walls, turning to see Nick striding towards me, the other groomsmen giving him a sidelong glance as they file their way out into the foyer to wait. My throat constricts, checking my watch in a panic, but find that there is still forty-five minutes left before the ceremony.